Tales from the River Bank
by Kizzia
Summary: A case brings back some bad memories for John. Sherlock does what he can.


'Let's walk,' Sherlock says as they exit the tower block into the pre-dawn gloom of the street.

John doesn't say a word, simply falls into step. Sherlock notes the way John's clenching and unclenching his left hand, his furious focus on the pavement beneath his feet, the almost invisible hitch in his gait, and he fervently wishes that - just this once - he hadn't woken John to accompany him.

When they reach Hungerford Bridge – Sherlock still can't bring himself to refer to it as Jubilee Bridge – he hesitates for a second then turns right, taking them along the south bank of the river rather than towards home. John doesn't appear to notice.

'Do you want to talk?' Sherlock risks, a moment later.

'What is there to say?' John's voice is harsh, overloud despite the fact that he's still not raised his head. 'That family are all dead.' A little quieter. 'But you solved it.' His voice drops further. 'There's nothing more.'

John stumbles and Sherlock fights every one of his instincts to reach out and steady him. John does not want his help. Correction, John does want his help, just not that sort of help. Physical manifestations of mental distress do not have physical cures. John needs support of different kind.

A memory surfaces, from years ago; Mycroft finding him under the dining room table and squeezing under too – map in one hand and a book of poems in the other. He can't remember now what he'd been hiding from. He can remember the poem, though, and his attempts at composing a suitable tune to set it to.

He's humming before he realises it, the swish and sigh of the river to his left providing a perfect accompaniment.

'That's nice.' John says. He's walking a little closer to Sherlock now. 'I've not heard it before.'

'It's one of mine.' Sherlock hums another few phrases then looks down at John. 'One of the first things I ever tried to compose. A song of the Thames. A River's Tale.'

John looks up in surprise. Sherlock can't tell if it's the mention of the river or his childhood that's peaked John's interest and, for once, he doesn't mind not being sure. He just keeps talking.

'I've always loved this river. From when I was very young,' he says, turning towards the balustrade and leaning on it, forearms flat on the wide top.

John steps up too, but rests against him, rather than the stone. Sherlock swallows, keeps his face pointing out toward the glimmering water.

'I thought it was invincible. Stopped for nothing, answered to no-one, saw everything.'

There's a brief huff from John. Sherlock doesn't turn. Instead he takes a breath and softly sings;

"Twenty bridges from Tower to Kew  
Wanted to know what the river knew  
For they were young and the Thames was old  
And this is the tale that the river told -"

'It's Kipling. Mycroft brought it to me one day. Showed me the bridges on a map and where the different sections of the poem happened as he read. Mummy was less than impressed when I spent the next six months re-enacting my favourite bit.'

He starts to sing again:

"And I remember like yesterday  
The earliest Cockney who came my way,  
When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand,  
With paint on his face and a club in his hand.  
He was death to feather and fin and fur.  
He trapped my beavers at Westminster.  
He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer,  
He killed my heron off Lambeth Pier.  
He fought his neighbour with axes and swords,  
Flint or bronze, at my upper fords."

Sherlock sneaks a sideways glance at John. He's staring out over the water, face blank, but the haunted look is receding and one corner of his mouth is tilting upwards a little.

'I don't think next door's cat ever forgave me for trying to give it a staring role in one production … as the beaver.'

This time John actually snorts and then his arm snakes round Sherlock's waist.

'I used to watch the Helmand River.'

Sherlock doesn't move. Doesn't dare do more than breathe shallowly, for fear John might not continue. For long minutes there's no sound but the soft splashing of the Thames lapping at the bank below them and the purr of distant cars as the city slowly begins to wake.

'I'd watch the water, try to lose my thoughts in the eddies when sleep just wouldn't come. It didn't happen often but …'

John stops, left hand tightening on Sherlock's waist. Then he shifts his weight forward so that while he's still pressed against Sherlock he's leaning on the balustrade too, right arm next to Sherlock's, right hand clenched into a fist.

'I shouldn't have done it. But the boy ran up us, grabbed my sleeve, begged for help and I … I couldn't just ignore him, or the cries I could hear through the open door. I thought they might overlook it, seeing as how I saved both mother and baby. The father was grateful. Came to the compound the next day with a loaf of bread for me. It might have been that, that tipped the balance in the end. I don't know. I never understood how they thought … Whatever it was, it was enough.'

John slams his fist against the stone.

'The entire family, Sherlock. All ten of them. Slaughtered. Just because I'd been in their house.'

'You found them.'

It's a statement, not a question but John answers anyway.

'Yes. They'd been dead a couple of days by that point. Just like …' John jerks his head in the approximate direction of the crime scene. 'We never patrolled the same route twice in a row or we might have found them sooner. Not that it would have mattered. The bastards that did it made sure they died quickly, at least. The only thing I could have done was not have gone inside in the first place. I … I wished I hadn't. Still do. At least that way only two of them would have died.'

Sherlock doesn't say any of the words that are chasing around his head; that John wasn't responsible for the warped justice the Taliban meted out; that John wouldn't have know he'd saved the rest of family by sacrificing the mother and child; that John wouldn't be John, wouldn't have been able to live with himself, if he'd walked away. Instead he takes John's fist in both his own hands, lifts it to his mouth and presses a kiss to the knuckles.

John makes an indistinct noise in the back of his throat and lets his head fall onto Sherlock's shoulder.

'Sing it all for me?' he whispers as the first rays of dawn set the Thames aglow.

So Sherlock does.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

This was partly inspired by the poem I quote above - "A River's Tale" by Rudyard Kipling – which I was first introduced to this weekend when I beta'd addyke's fic Gethsemane, which also references it. In that fic, Mycroft and Sherlock clearly share a childhood memory of the poem, so when I found out that Kipling had originally written it as a song - to go in C.R.L Fletcher's A History of England - but no record of it being set to music seems to exist, the head canon that Sherlock heard the poem and immediately wanted to write the score just sprang into being.

If you want to read the whole thing, so you know exactly what Sherlock sang to John on the banks of the Thames, here it is:

Twenty bridges from Tower to Kew-  
Wanted to know what the River knew,  
For they were young and the Thames was old,  
And this is the tale that the River told:-

"I walk my beat before London Town,  
Five hour up and seven down.  
Up I go till I end my run  
At Tide-end-town, which is Teddington.  
Down I come with the mud in my hands  
And plaster it over the Maplin Sands.  
But I'd have you know that these waters of mine  
Were once a branch of the River Rhine,  
When hundreds of miles to the East I went  
And England was joined to the Continent.

"I remember the bat-winged lizard-birds,  
The Age of Ice and the mammoth herds,  
And the giant tigers that stalked them down  
Through Regent's Park into Camden Town.  
And I remember like yesterday  
The earliest Cockney who came my way,  
When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand,  
With paint on his face and a club in his hand.  
He was death to feather and fin and fur.  
He trapped my beavers at Westminster.  
He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer,  
He killed my heron off Lambeth Pier.  
He fought his neighbour with axes and swords,  
Flint or bronze, at my upper fords.

"While down at Greenwich, for slaves and tin,  
The tall Phoenician ships stole in.  
And North Sea war-boats, painted and gay,  
Flashed like dragon-flies, Erith way;  
And Norseman and Negro and Gaul and Greek  
Drank with the Britons in Barking Creek,  
And life was gay, and the world was new,  
And I was a mile across at Kew!

"But the Roman came with a heavy hand,  
And bridged and roaded and ruled the land,  
And the Roman left and the Danes blew in-  
And that's where your history-books begin!"

I feel I should also say that the Taliban have killed entire Afghani families in Helmand just because one member had been seen speaking to British soldiers, so what John describes above is perfectly plausible.


End file.
